Something
by orbythesea
Summary: By the second week of it, he's pretty sure that he wants more from her than she wants from him. Set in season 3. (Part 2 of the Rule Nor Reason series; sequel to "Undefined.")


Twenty years later, and they're still not dating.

By the second week of it – whatever it is – by the second week of it, he's pretty sure that he wants more from her than she wants from him.

"Stay tonight?" he breathes against the long column of her throat. She won't. He knows it before she can sigh _Will_ in that way she has, before she can turn the verb of his name into an negation. He can feel it. He can feel her muscles contract against his lips as she swallows, the way her hand stills in his hair. "Or don't," he adds, quickly. "If you can't."

He hates that he does this, that he's always done this. He's spent two decades offering her outs, mapping all the roads around his heart so that she doesn't have to break it and he can pretend that she never will, that she never has.

He scrapes his teeth against her skin, slides his hand up her skirt. His fingers skim over the soft skin of her thighs and nudge the silk of her panties aside, sliding along her folds and coaxing a whimpered _Will_ that's a plea, not a _no_.

The truth is, he's a coward. The truth is he's brave. The Truth is this: Alicia Cavanaugh – Alicia Florrick – _Alicia_ has owned a piece of his soul since he was twenty-two-years-old and no matter how hard he tries, he can't get it back.

Sometimes, he think that he sold it off too cheaply, traded it away for nothing more than a smile and a sip of too-sweet coffee. Sometimes, he thinks that he got the better end of the deal, thinks that in exchange for that little piece of him, he got something precious and rare, something to _believe_ in. (And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is why he lets her do this to him, lets her smile be the thing that keeps his world spinning on its axis, lets her make all the rules then lets her break them without a word of reproach.)

She drew a distinction between romance and life, once, and sometimes he wants to tell her how much that hurt. Sometimes he wants to ask her _why_ it was never them, could never be them, why even now it _isn't_ them. He won't. He doesn't. He knows better. He knows enough to know that whatever they're doing, whatever they have, she can turn and walk away from it without a backward glance, can walk away from _him_ in a way he can never, never walk away from her, though not for lack of trying.

He started trying back when he was still a kid, when he heard her tell her roommate that he meant nothing. _Just stress relief_, she had said, and he could have asked her for more, then, but Janice was there, hovering, watching him with eyes that were sad and horrified, eyes that said that maybe she thought he was just a little bit pathetic. He didn't say it. He didn't say it, but when Carla Templeton asked him if he and Alicia were a thing, he swore up and down and back and forth that they weren't, but she didn't believe him.

"I mean, we sleep together, sometimes," he admitted, finally. "But no, we're not a _thing_." She had made that clear, and he went along with it, and how could he have known that he would spend the next twenty years wishing that he hadn't.

"You're a thing," Carla had said. "You may not believe it, but you are."

He thinks that he laughed or snorted but the truth is, he doesn't really remember because that's when Alicia walked in and whatever focus he had was suddenly split. He remembers making a conscious effort not to look at her, remembers looking down and straight into Carla's cleavage, not because he wanted to look, but because it was there and so long as he was staring at her tits, he could pretend that every nerve ending in his body wasn't reacting to Alicia's presence.

"Want me to prove it?" Carla asked him and, when he said nothing, she leaned in a bit closer, put a hand on his arm. "Will, do you want me to prove it?"

"I– " The thing is, Carla had great tits, and suddenly it _was_ distracting, suddenly it was all too distracting and Carla laughed and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

"All you have to do is make her jealous," Carla said. "Trust me. Women aren't nearly as complicated as you guys like to think that we are."

He trusted Carla and when it turned out that she was wrong he fucked her anyway because she was there and had truly spectacular breasts and she _offered_. He fucked her because she was the kind of girl he could fuck without it costing anything, without it meaning anything, and he wanted to know what that felt like, as if fucking Carla could teach him how it felt to be Alicia.

The thing is, sometimes he thinks that Alicia knew exactly what he was doing, exactly what he was _trying_ to do. When he's feeling bitter, uncharitable, when he's in that dark, awful place after she's left for the night because of the kids or Eli or Peter or one of the million other little pieces of life that keep her away– in those moments, he sometimes imagines that she saw him with Carla and laughed about it, about how transparent he was.

He thinks that, and then he hates himself for it because Alicia is everything but she's not that. She's not one of the blonde gigglers or sorority gossips and in twenty years of knowing her, he's never heard her say an unkind word about anyone. He thinks it's more likely that she thought that she was being polite, backing off and keeping quiet because that's what he _wanted_. But that's the thing about Alicia, really, she gives and gives until she stops, suddenly, and when she stops it sends him reeling.

One thing he knows not to ask for is a definition, because that's the one thing she's never been willing to give to him and he's pretty sure that the moment he asks, it will be over. So they're not dating, and when he has to force himself to stop staring at her, he feels like he's twenty-three again, stupidly in love without the words to say it. He's pretty sure that he's been staring at her since her first day at work, staring at her then making himself look away. He knows he did it in court, at least, has always done it in court.

There aren't many things in the world that he loves more than watching Alicia cross-examine a witness. He used to live for those moments, back before they started not dating again, used to live for the opportunity to stare at her legs without anyone to admonish him, let his eyes trace the curve of her hips and the graceful slope of her back. He doesn't let himself do that, now, as if his eyes might give them away, give _him_ away.

Now, he keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, tries not to hear the sly confidence in her voice or the way she can trick an adverse witness into forgetting that she is no one's friend. He thinks about the Bulls and the Cubs and the list of calls he needs to return, anything but the way those legs feel wrapped around his waist when he's buried deep inside of her.

Still, when she finishes and slides into the chair next to his, more often than not he can't stop himself from leaning over to whisper "Lunch?" in her ear. Her expression never waivers, but now he lives for the way her breath catches, just for a moment, lives for that little hint of proof that whatever they're doing, he can _get_ to her, even if it's just a little bit.

The thing is, he could always get to her. He figured that out early, before they even kissed. He figured it out because whenever he would touch her, even just a brush of his fingers against her wrist, she would stop breathing for a moment. She would stop breathing and her eyes would widen and her cheeks would get pink. He thought he was imagining it, sometimes, but then she kissed him – _she_ kissed _him_, members of the jury – that night at Matt's girlfriend's New Year's party.

He could always get to her, and when he was twenty-three he thought that meant something. Now, he likes to think that he's older and wiser and knows that it doesn't, but he still kind of lets himself believe that it does. Now when she wraps herself around him and begs him not to go anywhere, not to move, not to leave, not to _stop_– He knows that it doesn't mean what he wants it to mean, but he can't help but think that it means _something_.

(Something. Pronoun. A thing unspecified or unknown. Antonym: nothing.)

She's half-dressed and he's propped up on his pillow, shamelessly staring at her as she shakes the wrinkles out of his sheet looking for her bra and he knows better than to ask her to stay again but he wants to, _God_ he wants to.

"It's over there," he murmurs, pointing to the spot in the corner where her bra is dangling over the head of his old guitar, the one he bought with the first paycheck from his 2L summer job, as if buying a good guitar could keep himself from going totally corporate and lame.

"You still play?" she asks, and her voice is soft and fond and it makes him feel a bit like a child, like she thinks it's just so damn _cute._

"I do," he says, nodding. "Sometimes. When there's time."

"I used to like listening to you play," she admits, retrieving her bra and twisting her arms around to fasten it.

It surprises him, but she's not the only one with an impeccable poker face. He used to pull the guitar out at parties during their third year, after everyone was pleasantly buzzed and the air was thick with smoke from too many cigarettes and too much marihuana. She almost never showed up at those parties, was usually too busy keeping Peter entertained, keeping him _away_, as if she was embarrassed that her friends drank cheap beer and smoked anything at all.

When she did come, it was on weekends when Peter couldn't get away from Chicago and she never seemed to have all that much fun. She didn't smoke anything, just sat on the sofa with a drink, talking quietly about school or politics or work with whoever was hanging onto her for the evening. That was the thing about Alicia, there was always _someone_ vying for her attention and he's pretty sure she never noticed it, never noticed the way a smile or a kind word from her was enough to make the every member of the class of 1994 feel better, feel secure, feel like maybe the future wasn't so scary after all.

He would sit there on those nights, watching her make someone else's day and it felt freeing, somehow, like he could use her distraction to say everything he wanted without ever admitting he was doing it.

"Play something for me," she says, now, grabbing the guitar by its neck and holding it out to him.

He's embarrassed, suddenly, and keenly aware of his own nudity. He feels like he's back in that smoke-filled apartment, watching her make the world better for everyone else. It used to make him feel free, but looking back, he should have been jealous. Should have asked why she could find the time for Mary and Steve and Andrew but never for him.

The way she's holding the guitar makes him cringe a little, though, makes him worry that it might break. He takes it from her, sits up cross-legged and fiddles with the pegs with it until it's back in tune. "Like what?" he asks, deflecting. Always deflecting.

"I don't know," she admits, sitting down on the bed next to him. She grins and leans in to nibble at his ear. "Just… something."

He knows, then. Knows exactly what he wants to say to her, what he wants to play for her. He feels like he's twenty-five again, watching her across the room and playing his fucking heart out. The tune is familiar, and she recognizes what he's playing three notes in, before he even gets to the verse. She laughs and he grins, stops for a second. "Hey, you said to play 'Something,'" he teases. He's not much of a singer, but he picks it up at the first verse and sings anyway, and George Harrison's lyric feels heavy in his mouth. He means every word. (_I don't want to leave her now. You know I believe and how._)

By the time the song ends, she's dressed again and leaning in the doorway, smiling softly. She opens her mouth as if to speak, as if to say something, then she closes it again and shakes her head. "Thank you," she says, but he's pretty sure those aren't the words she planned on.

"Anytime," he murmurs. He keeps fiddling with the guitar, picks out the first few chords of _Do You Want to Know a Secret_, a few measures of _Her Majesty_.

"Lunch tomorrow?" she asks him, and he laughs.

"You're insatiable," he murmurs. He tosses the guitar down on the bed and moves towards her, fast and fluid with purpose. "I kinda like that about you." He pins her against the door jamb, presses a hungry kiss against her mouth.

"Look who's talking." She wraps a hand around him, gets him hard again with a few flicks of her wrist and _God_ it's like he really is twenty-three again, the way she can make him want and want and never stop wanting.

She doesn't stay the whole night, but after he's made her gasp and whimper and plead with him, she rolls onto her back and sleeps for a few hours and he just watches her, studies her, studies the way the light filters through the curtains and paints shadows over her face, studies the fine lines that the years have deposited over her forehead and around her eyes. When she was younger, she used to sleep curled into a compact ball, legs up against her chest, arms wrapped around a pillow. He wants to ask when that changed, why that changed, if it happened when she started straightening her hair and wearing heels with jeans.

More than that, though, he wants her to stay there forever and when she wakes up and smiles at him, he lets himself believe that she will.

"Hey," she whispers. "You know it's kind of creepy, watching someone sleep."

"You mentioned that, once," he says. It's the first time either of them has brought up that time in law school, that thing that wasn't a thing, and it's kind of amazing, the speed with which her smile disappears.

"Yes," she says. "I did." She sits up, reaches for her phone on his nightstand to check the time. "I have to go," she says, but there is remorse in her voice.

"I know," he says, but he doesn't, not really. The kids are with Peter and she's not in court tomorrow so there's really no _reason_ that she has to go, but she thinks she does, so maybe that's reason enough.

That's one thing that's different, now. When they were younger, she used to justify herself to him, used to offer explanations like _I have to study_ and _Janice and I need to go grocery shopping_ and _It's. The. Smart. Thing. To. Do._ Even now, his skin feels too tight when he thinks about that, it makes his jaw clench and his stomach ache and the words he never got to say spill into his throat like bile.

He wants to say them now, wants to tell her, all matter-of-fact-like how all those nights he spent watching her sleep he was imagining building a _life_ with her. He wants to tell her the way he would whisper Cavanaugh and Gardner in the dark, dreaming about the firm they would make together, the hundreds of associates who would work under them. He had such _plans_ back then. Plans to take over the world with her, plans for all the silly, romantic things he would do for her.

He overheard her telling Janice, once, that she loved irises and thought roses were cliché, so he imagined leaving flowers on her desk every morning, a different color of iris for each day of the week. He had _plans_ for that, flowers all week then lazy weekend mornings with their kids. He always thought he'd be the kind of dad who would drag his kids out of bed early on Saturday mornings, teach them to make breakfast for their mom, then bring it to her in bed. They would snuggle and laugh and eventually she would give him that Look, the kind of Look that even now makes his breath come a bit too short, makes his pants feel a bit too tight. In his mind, on those mornings she would give him a Look and he'd quickly get their kids settled in front of morning cartoons and then they would lock the door and make love and talk and kiss and talk until one of them – her, probably – they would stay like that until she started to feel like they were neglecting their children and life would be indistinguishable from romance.

He wants to tell her this, but he doesn't. He wonders if she had mornings like that, with Peter, when _her_ kids were younger, when she still thought that Peter held the moon in his hands. He doesn't tell her. He doesn't tell her anything.

"I'll see you tomorrow," is what he says instead and she kisses him goodbye.

After she goes, he drifts into sleep and she is there, in his dreams, young and old all at once. In his dreams, she whispers "I love you."

It's another few weeks before she finally does stay, and in the morning he brings her pancakes and they eat breakfast together, watching the morning news until a bit of syrup drips off her fork onto one of her breasts, and, well, he can't resist. There are no kids to neglect, so they stay in bed all day, talking about clients and work and all of the things they want to do to each other. She is more adventurous than she was, more daring, and it's thrilling and intimate, listening to her talk about her fantasies, about all of the delicious, naughty things that she has never been brave enough to try. She trusts him with this, so doesn't occur to him that talking about sex isn't the same as talking about life.

It's not like he's necessarily checking off a list, but after he follows her into his office bathroom in the middle of an insanely busy day, she accuses him of doing exactly that. It becomes a challenge, then, to see how many of Alicia's guilty, secret desires can he satisfy.

He sends her texts and e-mails detailing exactly what he plans to do with her the moment he has her alone, slides his fingers along her legs during meetings and ignores the way she glares at him because she _asked_ him to. He's not stupid, so he never goes as far as he wants to, as far as she wants him to. He doesn't dare, not in a conference room made of glass. In court he lets himself stare again, whispers more than simply _lunch_ when she comes back to the table.

He goes down on her while she's on the phone with a client, once. She's talking about litigation strategy for one of his six million suits when he steps into the hotel room and he guides her to the bed, sits her down and parts her legs and she stays on the phone for longer than he expected. He doesn't realize how close she is until she comes mere moments after ending the call.

"I hope you're not billing him for that," he teases, wiping his mouth on the sheet by her thigh. It doesn't occur to him until later just how awful a thing that was to say. The next time he tries, she hangs as soon as he slides her skirt down to the floor.

When the same client needs her in New York for a weekend, and she stops by his office to get partner approval for the trip. "You know," he tells her, leaning back in his chair. "He's a cash cow. A partner should probably go with you, just to supervise. The smile that spreads over her face is slow, knowing, and it makes heat pool in the pit of his stomach, makes his heart swell up in his chest.

"You think?" she murmurs, smile turning into a smirk, and it takes every ounce of self control he has not to lean over his desk and kiss that look off her face.

"I do," he says. "See if Julius is available," he adds, teasing. A wave of confusion passes over her face, just for a moment, then her laugh is rich and warm and he can't help but join in.

For the sake of appearances, they book two rooms, but they never see the inside of one of them. On the balcony off his room, they make love under the stars.

"This is the happiest I've ever been," she whispers into his ear and he closes his eyes and smiles. It isn't _I love you_ or _I want this to go on forever_ but it's confirmation. It is _something_, this thing they're doing. It's validation, proof that when he gave her that piece of his soul all those years ago, it was an even exchange.

He thinks about that snowstorm in February of 1L, the one that cancelled classes and knocked out her power. It was probably twenty degrees in her apartment, but her mouth was hot and burning against his skin. He thinks about walking through the aisle of the drugstore near her apartment, clutching her hand in his to keep her from shaking as they looked for the pregnancy tests. He had held her hand and imagined kissing her pregnant belly, imagined waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of their daughter's cries and whispering _I've got her,_ as he pressed a kiss against Alicia's forehead. _Get some sleep._

He thinks about their last day of 3L classes, before exams started, before she found out that she was pregnant for real. They met up in some trendy, expensive bar that Peter had taken her to once because they both wanted to drink, but neither of them really wanted to drink with other people. The bartender spoke with a German accent and tried to flirt with her, tried to get them excited about Bayern Munich winning the championship and Alicia wasn't having any of it. She wasn't having any of it and it made him laugh because for all that Alicia used to tolerate baseball and basketball, she could never bring herself to care about a game that could end in a zero-zero tie.

He thinks about the way her mouth looks when she forms the words _thank you_, thinks about the way he's pretty sure _thank you_ means so much more, when it comes from her. She says _thank you_ and he hears _I love you_ and it's stupid and silly and he knows it because after twenty years they still don't have a working definition for whatever it is that exists between them but he makes her happy and, really, that's all he's ever wanted. He makes her happy and even without a definition, this is _something._ This– whatever they are– they're _something._

"Me too," he breathes, blinking back the tears that are pricking at the corners of his eyes. "God, me too."

He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't know how long they stay on that balcony, but the sun is rising when he carries her sleeping form inside and lays her down on the bed. He presses a kiss against her forehead and curls up beside her, wraps his arms around her and sleeps until the alarm demands their attention.

When he starts to get up, she wraps herself around him, all sleepy and warm as she murmurs "Don't go."

She murmurs don't go, but then her phone is ringing and it's Matthew Fucking Ashbaugh and even though they wouldn't be here without him, Will is irrationally angry, irrationally jealous of this man who loves Alicia and can steal pieces of her at all hours of the day.

He doesn't tell her, though, he doesn't tell her that he's jealous of Ashbaugh, doesn't tell her that when he said he loved her, it might have been an accident but it was an accident that _meant_ something. If there was ever a time to try again, it was last night, sitting out there on the balcony, holding her close to him but she was happy and he didn't want to disturb that. She will say the words when she is ready, but for now he hears them in her _thank yous_, in her laughter, in the way she makes his name sound like a prayer.

He doesn't tell her he loves her, but he thinks that she knows and when Peter comes after him, when Diane comes after him, when the world comes after him, it just makes him want to fight harder to keep her. She asks if they should pause, and all he can hear is that it's over. Again. His throat closes and he keeps his expression neutral and he asks if that's what she wants and she only hesitates for a second but he thinks it's the longest moment of his life.

He asks her if she wants to and he prepares his defense, prepares to fight. He isn't walking away this time, isn't accepting _it's the smart thing to do_ as an answer. It is complicated and stupid but he let her walk away when she was twenty-three and he can't do it again, he _won't_ do it again.

When she says no, agrees to be stupid with him, agrees to let things be complicated and messy his heart beats back to life in his chest, thumps and pounds and he has never loved her more than sitting there in his office, watching her smile and blush and let him be a part of the complicated mess that is her life.

They don't pause, and it's hard to get away, but he steals moments. He steals moments, steals texts messages and phone calls and his hand up her skirt in the parking garage as they pretend they're talking about a client. He steals these moments as if he can stop her life from getting in the way of _their_ life, as if he can hold onto her if he can just keep her wanting him, keep the distractions at bay.

Diane tells him that it's not smart and he wants to hit her, wants to curl into a ball and cry. He doesn't. He doesn't tell Diane that just because something is smart doesn't mean that it's right and Alicia– him and Alicia– it's _right_ even if it's stupid, even if it makes things harder, it's right even if it's wrong because he isn't right without her. He doesn't tell Diane, and he doesn't tell Alicia but when she smiles at him through the glass of the conference room, he thinks that she knows.

He thinks that she knows, but he knows that it's over before she says a word, before she even steps into his office. He's ready for it, and he tries to pretend it isn't happening. Tries to smile and ask about Grace but then she says his name and he knows that nothing he can say will change it, nothing he can say will make it better.

He stands there and lets her break his heart again, holds her and lets her apologize like there are any words that can make it better.

He doesn't tell her that it's okay, doesn't tell her that he understands. He doesn't beg her to stay because he knows how that conversation goes. He knows how that conversation goes, how that conversation has always gone. There is a part of him that wants the last words she hears from him to be _I love you_ but he can't say them because to say them now would be cruel.

He holds her and he puts his heart back in his chest and he doesn't think of the twenty years they lost, the future that they'll never have and maybe she was right. Maybe life isn't romantic and this thing, this thing, this _something_ between them– maybe it was never anything at all.

The truth, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the truth is that his heart has been broken since he was twenty-three years-old and as he holds her, there in his office, as he lets her whisper her goodbyes, there is a part of him that wants her to _know_ it, but there is also a part of him that knows that she always has. She knows it, and that's not nothing. For now, he lets it be enough.


End file.
